


The Bleeding Whole

by marchingjaybird



Category: Thor (Movies), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ragnar Lothbrok's gods show up at his door, he cannot refuse them.  But the adventure into which they draw him, his family, and his friends is far beyond anything they could have imagined, and the sacrifices they will make before it is over will test them to their very limits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bleeding Whole

**Author's Note:**

> A few things before we get started:
> 
> 1\. This would absolutely not have been possible without the assistance of my wonderful beta (and adopted child), [lamentforboromir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lamentforboromir/pseuds/lamentforboromir). She is by far the best beta in the entire world and I cannot thank her enough.
> 
> 2\. The gods in this are based on the Marvel Cinematic Universe versions of themselves, apart from poor Balder who isn't in the MCU, and who is based on what I believe his MCU equivalent would be. This also takes place long before the events in _Thor_ , so as far as they know, Thor and Loki are brothers. Also, in keeping with the Marvel comics canon, Balder does not know that Odin is his father.
> 
> 3\. This fic deals pretty heavily in themes of religion and religious doubt, and in later chapters will contain fictionalized descriptions of Norse sex magic. As there's not a lot available for me to actually research, most of it will be loosely based on actual beliefs. If my extrapolation offends, I apologize whole-heartedly. Just keep in mind that it is a fanfic and therefore not required to be 100% accurate.
> 
> 4\. And finally, as the chapters are posted, I will add the new pairings to the tags. No sense spoiling all the surprises so early. :)

He stood at the edge of the beach where the waters lapped at rough sands, dragging detritus into its depths and spitting out what it chose to carry no longer. He watched with interest, a boy in stature if not in nature ; his father had died in the raids just two years past and his mother mourned still. Her grief embarrassed him at times. She did not cry - which would not have been shameful, only silly - but he caught her sometimes staring at nothing, her hands dangling at her sides, useless. He missed his father, too, but there were little ones to feed and she would not consider taking another husband. So he fished and hunted and worked what little land they had, and it was enough to live on.

He had come out this morning to mend the nets; they were finely woven to catch small fish in the shallows of the fjord and the work took small fingers and great concentration. It was not a chore that he minded, as it gave him reason to leave his mother's long silences and the constant squabbling of the little ones, and ordinarily he would bend his entire attention to it. He had been standing at the water's edge for some time now, the nets forgotten further up the beach. All of his interest was captured by billowing sails, white as snow, that snapped as they filled with the wind.

He had been shocked at first, when the flash of white had caught the corner of his eye, irritating him as it flashed in the sun. He supposed it at first to be a bird or a cloud, something that reflected the sunlight enough to throw a glare that would distract him from his work. He had resisted looking up for a long while, immersed in his duties, and so he did not see the longship until it was halfway up the fjord.

Perhaps he should have run away, hid with his family; they were well away from the beach, tucked back in a stand of trees that sheltered them from all but those who knew they were there. But they had nothing to steal. A gentle old horse, a couple of stringy goats good only for their milk, and a garden that had seen better days. There was no gold, no young and beautiful women. Whoever was on the ship would never come to his home. And so he stood on the beach, with the waves tickling his bare toes, and he watched the ship glide across the waters.

It was the biggest ship he had ever seen, and his father had taken him to Kattegat to watch the ships prepare for the raids. He did not fancy himself an expert but he knew how his father’s ship had looked, knew that it was comparable to the other ships that left from that harbor. This one was nothing like those; it was the eagle to their gulls, the wolf to their pups. There was not a graceless line to it, not a single flaw, and it cut the waves like a knife slicing flesh, effortless and dangerously beautiful. As it drew closer, it occurred to him that he should run back home, get on the horse, and hurry to warn as many people as he could. This was clearly a ship of war; there were shields, brightly painted, hanging from her sides, and he could hear the raucous voices of a raiding party echoing off the sides of the cliffs. 

He ought to warn the men so that they could defend their farms, but why? Most everyone that lived on this stretch of land was nothing more than a simple farmer, able perhaps to swing a club in defense of his land, but surely no match for a raiding party. There were a few able warriors, men who had been on raids and returned, but they would be vastly outnumbered. An honorable death, but a pointless one. He had come to think of most death as pointless since his father failed to return. 

Besides, to warn the others would be to lose sight of the ship, as beautiful as a goddess as it came to a stop near his beach . He stood, eyes squinted against the sun and the bright white of the sails, as she disgorged several men who splashed through the shallows to join him on the beach. They did not threaten him, though they wore armor and carried weapons; the one in the lead, impossibly tall and very blonde, even smiled down at him.

"You, boy," he said, and though his voice had all the arrogance of a warlord, it was genial . "I am going on a journey and I require men."

"You have come to the wrong place then, my lord," the boy answered. "There are naught but farmers here, save for Ragnar Lothbrok and his brother. Most of the warriors live nearer the Earl." The lord - for surely he was a lord of some sort - glanced back over his shoulder at one of the men who had accompanied him. He was also tall, though dark of hair and white of skin, and his long graceful hands reminded the boy of the seidrman he had seen once, wrapped all in cloak of falcon's feathers . His father had snatched him away and given him a beating for looking, but his father was not here now, and the boy stared openly.

"What do you think, brother?" the lord murmured. The lord's brother, the seidrman, regarded the boy with vivid green eyes, then smiled very faintly and looked away. 

"I think that you require only a handful of warriors," he said. "Why not take the ones that are in this place? We came here by design, after all." The boy's hands trembled at the suggestion of magic and he stepped forward.

"I can take you to them," he said, and the lord smiled down at him and clapped him on the shoulder. It nearly knocked the boy off of his feet.

"Excellent!" he boomed, and then his attention was on the others of his party as he ordered them to this task or that. His brother, though, regarded the boy with glittering eyes.

"Be careful, child," he murmured. "My brother drags men along on his adventures with little regard for their safety." 

"With respect, my lord," the boy answered, "I am not going for your brother." The seidrman laughed softly, touched the top of the boy's head with his long fingers. A shock ran through his body. Magic or just excitement, it didn't matter; he hurried out in front of the group of armed men, gesturing for them to follow.

That is how the boy Odd met the god Thor. 

***

Athelstan stood outside, refusing to shiver though the wind tugged at his clothes and the cold sliced through them to nip at his flesh. In truth, he barely noticed his own physical discomfort. His spiritual distress was far greater a concern, and even that was subsumed by Bjorn's rage.

"That other boy is in there!" he protested, not for the first time.

"Keep your voice down," Athelstan answered. Bjorn glared at him.

"Don't tell me what to do," he retorted, but he returned to muttering under his breath and pacing. Generally, he was an even-tempered boy - though he seemed to resent Athelstan's presence and often went out of his way to be contrary - but when his parents had sequestered themselves with their visitors, his temper had flared alarmingly. Gyda, who always seemed to Athelstan to be far too sweet to be the product of Ragnar and Lagertha, huddled against Athelstan's side. Her wide eyes alternated between her brother's anger and the closed door of their home. 

They had appeared when everyone was outside, marching up the path from the beach with a boy Bjorn's age in the lead. Athelstan recognized him but vaguely, and the others not at all, but the blood had drained from Lagertha's face and Ragnar - who had been teaching him to patch the chinks in the wall, and who had been suggestively close, much to Athelstan's discomfort - Ragnar's pulse had jumped and his typical secretive half-smile had fallen from his face. They had bustled the visitors inside, ejecting both children and priest, and leaving Athelstan bemused and cold.

"Who are they?" he'd asked. "Is he some sort of king?" He still did not entirely understand his captor's ways and had never heard Ragnar mention a king, but what other explanation could there be? Bjorn had favored him with a withering glare and turned away, and so it was Gyda who had answered.

"He is not a king," she'd said, wrapping both her arms around one of his. "He is Thor." And when he'd stared down at her in confusion, she had explained patiently, "He is a god." 

And here they stood, waiting for the door to open, waiting for some news to escape the house. They ought to be working; there were hours yet left in the day, and Athelstan was not accustomed to standing idle, but Gyda still held him tight and Bjorn would not listen to him and he did not think he could convince his fingers to work properly in any case. There was a god in the house, perhaps several, and though he did not believe that this Thor was in any way similar to his own God, it was clear that Ragnar and his family did. So far he had not tried to reconcile this with his own beliefs. It was still too shocking, and he was still sorting out his own reaction, picking emotions out like threads from a knot. 

Gyda's hands tightened suddenly on his arm and he looked up. The door had opened, just a crack, and the other boy had slipped out of the house. He was a slight thing, Bjorn's age at least, taller by a little but much slimmer, much more fragile. His hair was long, wispy strands of red that surrounded his head like a corona. His eyes, wide and dark, were intelligent, his hands restless, his mouth sad. Athelstan had liked him immediately.

"Did they kick you out?" Bjorn demanded, clearly harboring no such sympathy. His jaw jutted in challenge but the other boy failed to take the bait.

"They want us to run errands for them," he answered. "You are to fetch your father's brother and as many men as will come with him." Bjorn stood for a moment, fists clenching and unclenching as he debated the indignity of not being told directly versus the honor of going to fetch the warriors back. Finally, he gave a tight nod and, without another glance back, turned and began running up the path that would lead him to Kattegat.

"I must go as well," the boy said, almost apologetically. "Will you walk up the beach a ways and tell my mother that I am well and she need not worry?"

"I will," Gyda said. "Athelstan is only a priest, he doesn't know the way." Athelstan's lips thinned at this, but she was right. Though the boy looked distantly familiar to him, he had no idea where he might live. "But I've met your sisters." The boy smiled and nodded his head.

"Thank you, Gyda," he said. And then he turned and loped off along another path. Where it led , Athelstan did not know. Nor was it any of his concern; Gyda had him by the hand and was tugging him along towards the beach. 

"Come on," she ordered, irritable until he fell into step with her. "Odd's mother will want to know that he is not hurt. His father died and now she is sad all the time."

"Poor woman," Athelstan murmured. Gyda looked up at him pityingly and patted his hand, as she did when he said or did something she thought foolish. 

"She has children and she mustn't spend as much time as she does feeling bad for herself," she declared. "If my husband died in battle, I would be proud of him, and then I would find a new husband to have more children with." She said it so matter-of-factly that Athelstan almost laughed. It seemed even sweet, gentle Gyda had inherited some of her mother's cold practicality.

They walked, Gyda in the lead, down the narrow trail which wound along, parallel to the water. It was beautiful, bordered on either side by grasses and short trees that were just beginning to leaf out, and ordinarily it was a walk that Athelstan would have enjoyed. A cold sense of dread filled him now, though, and his eyes stayed focused on the back of Gyda’s blonde head until she finally stepped off the trail and hopped expertly down a short, steep incline. He followed, somewhat less gracefully, and then they stood on the beach where the boy had first encountered these so-called gods. A massive longship, twice the size of the one in which Ragnar had brought him here, lay anchored in the middle of the fjord. There were still men on it; Athelstan could see them pacing back and forth across the deck, but it seemed that some of them preferred dry land to the confines of the ship. Gyda stopped short on the beach and planted her feet, Athelstan behind her, as though she could shield him with her tiny body.

One of the men stepped forward and the breath caught in Athelstan's throat. As far as he had traveled, as many people as he had met, he had never before seen a person, man or woman, so beautiful. His features were flawless, his hair dark, his eyes the brilliant crystal blue of a cloudless sky. He smiled gently, first at Gyda, then at Athelstan, and when he spoke, his voice was clear and low and musical.

"Have you come to fetch the rest of us, then?" he asked. Athelstan stood rigid, his mouth dry as sand, and so it was Gyda who answered and Gyda to whom the man's attention turned.

"We have come to give a message to Odd's mother," she said, her voice soft with awe. "Are you...?"

"I am Balder of Asgard ," he answered, and from Gyda's slow intake of breath, Athelstan knew him to be another of their gods, and he forced himself to look away . Gyda bowed low and Balder inclined his head to her, then turned his piercing gaze on Athelstan. The priest shifted his feet in the sand, but held his head high. Balder was beautiful but he was not Athelstan's God. "You do not bow."

"I do not," Athelstan answered, and his voice was a dry rasp but that it came out at all was a triumph and he took it as such. "The man I serve, serves you, but I do not." The men, the Asgardians, standing behind Balder laughed, but Balder only smiled. He stepped forward, grasped one of Athelstan's hands in both of his and pressed it tight. He was too close now; his scent filled Athelstan's senses, warm and fresh and clean, like sun-warmed rocks by the sea, and the blue of his eyes overwhelmed all else. 

"And you will be honored for that, priest," Balder murmured. "Have no fear. None shall harm you while I am in this company." It was a strange thing to say; Athelstan surely feared his captors, but not for that reason. Though they teased and mocked him for his beliefs, they had never given the impression that they wished him harm because of them. Confused and alarmed, he pulled his hands from Balder's grip and shoved them behind his back. 

"Come, Gyda," he murmured. A low ripple of laughter followed him as he hustled her along the beach, past the Asgardians. "We have a task to complete." She twisted, staring up at him as though he were mad, but after a few steps she gave in and began to hurry ahead of him again.

"You should not have done that," she scolded. Athelstan looked back over his shoulder, but they were well off the beach now and none of the Asgardians were paying them any mind. Frowning, he fell in step behind her once again.

"Done what?" he asked, sullen.

"You should not have disrespected Balder!" she exclaimed, her voice gone squeaky in disbelief. "He is a god!"

"I don't believe in your gods, Gyda," Athelstan reminded her gently. A great huff of breath escaped her and she turned, planting her hands on her hips and blocking his path. "Don't stop walking, we have things to do..."

"Priest," she said, utterly ignoring his protest, "you _have_ to believe in them. They are right in front of you. You have spoken to them. One of them touched you!" Something deep inside Athelstan shuddered, shied away, and he shook his head. 

"They are not gods," he said, less firmly than he'd intended. Gyda stamped her foot impatiently.

"They _are_ gods!" she shouted. "Stop being pigheaded, you are just like Bjorn !" Anger twisted her face, which he would ordinarily have found quite funny; compared to the rest of her family Gyda was gentle, and on her, anger fit about as well as her mother's clothes would have. He did not laugh now, though. There was sincerity behind her fury, and frustration, and he could sense that he was hurting her feelings.

"I'm sorry, Gyda..." he murmured, reaching out to grasp her shoulder. She slapped his hand away, tears starting in her eyes, and the dark feeling that had lurked in his belly since the Asgardians had arrived grew until it swallowed him whole.

"You are _not_ sorry!" she snapped. "You are terrible! You can believe in gods and not worship them, priest! " She turned away from him and marched away up the path, but he could hear her huffing and growling under her breath, choking back furious tears. He stood for a moment in the middle of the path, wrapped in guilt and fear and wishing with all his heart that Ragnar Lothbrok had never shown his face at Lindisfarne. 

This was not the first time despair had wrapped bony arms around him , but always before he had had his faith and his brothers to prop him back up. Now, what was there? He ran errands for the man who had razed his home and killed his family. He looked after his children, wore his clothes, worked his farm. At first, perhaps, it had all been in the spirit of survival, but it was growing harder and harder to lie to himself. He cared about them, cared about Bjorn and Gyda and even Lagertha, though she often frightened him. 

He cared about Ragnar Lothbrok. It all stemmed from that, all of the warmth that he felt in this place and all of the guilt and darkness that accompanied it. He had watched the man steal the monastery’s belongings, throw his dead brothers over the side of his ship. He had seen Ragnar walk past men hung up to die without so much as a second glance. He had been taken as a slave by this man, and still he cared, still he craved the secret, crooked smiles, the way Ragnar purred when he said "priest", the lingering touches to his shoulders and elbows and, once, to his inner thigh. He had refused when Ragnar offered him his wife, not because he did not want Lagertha - he did, though she intimidated him - and not because of his vows - though that had been his excuse - but because he did not trust himself to lie in the same bed as Ragnar and not reach for him.

He did not care about Ragnar Lothbrok . That was too weak a word. He hated Ragnar, desired him, was frightened and comforted by him in equal measure. He wished him dead and wished to shield him all at once. He was confused by him and tortured by guilt and shame because of him. Everything in his life now orbited around Ragnar and he could not stop it even if he tried. Even if he wanted to.

Athelstan drew a ragged breath, gathering the bleakness, the anger, the fear, and pushing them down like rocks into the pit of his stomach. There was always something to do, always some work on which to focus, and he must keep pressing forward. He must endure .

***

The house was too small for everyone, so Ragnar had sent them all running to fetch wood and stones; a bonfire burned now, the flames licking eagerly at the sky, and they were arrayed around it, sitting on stones or on the bare ground as they saw fit. The gods had brought food and mead from their ship, for which Ragnar was thankful. There was certainly not enough to feed all of the men and women who sat now around the fire, singing and telling stories. Rollo had come from Kattegat and brought twelve men with him, and Thor had his brother Loki, Balder the Bright, the Lady Sif, and twenty warriors besides. Floki had arrived an hour ago, trailed by his woman Helga and the boy Odd, and he sat now, deep in conversation with Loki about things that Ragnar did not care to know. 

It was a strange gathering, the news of which would reach the Earl soon enough if it had not already. That the gods had chosen Ragnar instead of him would surely enrage him, and Ragnar had already antagonized him. It was not likely to end well. Ragnar stood, arms folded, shoulders resting against the wall of his home. He was not worried about the Earl, knew very well where the man's strengths and weaknesses lay; it was more a matter of being prepared for every eventuality.

"Look at you," came a voice from out of the darkness. He turned, smiled lazily at his wife. Her eyes were very bright in the light of the fire, and she had never looked so beautiful as she did then, her hair transformed into a golden halo, her cheeks and the tops of her breasts tinged pink from leaning close to the flames. He reached out and caught her around the waist, pulled her to him. She settled against his chest, more willing than usual to be held.

"Why do you stand here and watch?" she demanded. "As though you were a lord and we were your men." She slapped him on the face, not lightly, and he growled in his throat. She only laughed, twisted her fingers in his hair as she pulled him down for a kiss. Her mouth tasted of honey, and desire stirred in his belly.

"I was only watching you flaunt your charms for the gods," he teased. Lagertha slapped him again, hard enough to redden his cheek, but he bit back his laughter. She hit his face because she was in a good mood. If he pressed her any further, she might descend into a rage and genuinely try to hurt him. "Shh," he soothed, kissing his way up her neck, which she bared for him reluctantly. "Thor was enjoying it as much as I."

Lagertha's expression changed then, sliding from amused to crafty to hungry, and Ragnar almost wished that he had kept his observations to himself. Only almost, though; the thought of seeing his wife's small hands slide down his god's chest, of seeing her red lips around his prick, drove him on. "Get him for me," she purred, biting his jaw as she slipped from his grasp. "I will wait inside."

Ragnar stood for a moment, one side of his mouth quirked up in a smile as he studied the gathering. They laughed and ate and drank and he could tell by the warmth in their eyes that the shield maidens who had come with Thor had chosen out their men for the night. One was gazing with purpose at his brother and Ragnar barked a soft laugh under his breath; Rollo would have a good night, but gods willing, so would he.

Carefully, he picked his way through the crowds, stopping every so often to touch a hand or shoulder, to murmur a greeting. Everyone was happy, everyone was drunk, and there was a tension in the air, an electric frisson of excitement. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? Who knew to what glory their gods would lead them? 

He reached Thor's side finally, crouched on his heels and touched his god on one broad shoulder. Thor turned, his face flushed with drink though his eyes were still bright and alert as ever. "Ragnar Lothbrok," he murmured in his rich voice, and Ragnar licked his lower lip . His touch turned into a caress, palm smoothing along the hard muscles of Thor's arm.

"My lord," he breathed, leaning close. "You met my wife?" Thor's eyes darkened, turned hungry.

"She is a fine woman," the god encouraged, a faint smile touching his lips.

"She is waiting for you inside," Ragnar purred. It pleased him to see how quickly Thor set aside his drink and stood. He was not shy about sharing his wife as she chose, but only with a man who would appreciate her as much as he did. He waited a moment, crouched still, and watched Thor wade through the crowds. Smiling again, his cock hard and eager against his thigh, he stood to follow.

Something caught his eye, then, a hesitant movement that could only be one person. His gaze fixed on the priest and Athelstan stopped what he had been doing, stood stock still like a startled rabbit. He was apart from everyone else, holding only a piece of bread and a cup of what Ragnar was certain was water. The poor man, he denied himself so strenuously that one day he would fade away into nothing. It had been carefully calculated, taking the priest instead of the treasure he had brought back from Lindisfarne; with Athelstan's knowledge, Ragnar had access to so much more plunder, so many more slaves. He was useful, the most important thing to be, and yet...

And yet. Just looking at the priest, scared little prey animal that he was, trembling on the verge of running away, just _looking_ at him woke something bestial in Ragnar. He had offered the priest Lagertha - and it had been her idea, as it always was, as it always would be, as was her right - but that time and that night, she had done it for him. She had done it because _he_ wanted Athelstan, wanted those slim, pale limbs wrapped around him, wanted to taste the salt sweat on his white skin. He had fucked men before, slaves and whores and, once, a seidrman who had cried out with every thrust and gripped Ragnar tighter than he had ever been gripped before or since, his fingers weaving strange magics all the while. None of that, he knew, would compare to the priest, who would probably cry and who would definitely beg.

Ragnar winked, deliberate and lewd as he reached down to adjust himself. He was achingly hard now, and the wild-eyed stare of terror that he received from the priest only fanned the flames. Laughing to himself, he strode through the crowds and slammed into the house.

Lagertha was against the wall, legs wrapped around Thor's waist, breath coming in throaty gasps. There were bright marks all down her long neck. As the door slammed, Thor lowered her and stepped back. Both were bare to the waist, slick with sweat; Lagertha had built up the fire and it roared in its hearth, flooding the room with heat. "Your wife is sweet," Thor murmured, thumbing her lower lip, laughing as she bit it.

"Careful, though," Ragnar warned, lazily stripping off his own shirt. "She has spines."

"None that can harm me," Thor laughed, seizing Lagertha around the waist. His hands were so large that they spanned nearly her entire girth and she laughed like a girl as he carried her to the table and set her on its edge. He was almost delicate as he pushed her skirts up, bunching them around her hips and pushing her legs open. Lagertha bit her lips, threw her head back, reached for him eagerly but he was out of her reach, kneeling on the floor and flicking his tongue out to taste between her legs.

She squealed in surprise, a delightful noise coming from her , and Ragnar laughed softly. Ordinarily, she would have struck him or at least thrown something, but her attention was focused on the god who knelt before her. Her eyes were dark, her lips swollen, and a flush spread across her chest and up her throat as he lapped at her. Ragnar knew that look, that dangerous abandon, and it sent jealousy crashing through him in a sick wave , jealousy that fed his own arousal.

Trembling , he crossed the room, shedding the rest of his clothes as he came . She fixed him with a desperate stare, lips parted, eyes already hazy with lust. He caught her by the throat , climbed onto the table behind her. His legs bracketed her hips, her back rested against his chest, and he could feel every shudder that ran through her, every rough gasp as Thor's tongue worked her clit. His own fingers found her breasts, teasing her already hard, aching nipples, and she whimpered, twisting back against him. His cock, thick and heavy, dug into her, trapped between the small of her smooth back and his own hard belly; every time she moved the friction sent fingers of pleasure teasing through his gut.

She twitched suddenly, her soft gasping turning into a low moan of pleasure, her hips jerking up. Thor's fingers were inside her, twisting and pulsing and slipping in and out as he sat back on his heels. His thumb took the place of his tongue, rubbing her roughly until she threw her head back and cried out. Ragnar's hands slipped down to press against her belly as it tensed and rippled with the force of her climax. Gasping, purring, she slumped back against her husband, a lazy smile on her flushed face. 

Thor stood, leaned in close, and she lifted her face, expecting a kiss. But his eyes were focused on Ragnar, bright and intense; so close, Ragnar imagined he could see lightning dancing in the thunder god's pupils . "Do you want to taste your wife, Ragnar Lothbrok ?" Thor rasped, and Ragnar leaned in eagerly. A powerful hand clasped the back of his head as his lips parted, and then Thor's tongue was dipping into his mouth, heady with the taste of Lagertha.

Her teeth worried at his ear, nipping tenderly, and as Thor broke their kiss, Ragnar turned to press his lips to his wife's. She arched against him, breathing slow and deep, every motion lazy and content. He liked her best like this, sated and deceptively pliant, like a snake lounging in the sun . His hands slipped down, caressing her belly, and she bit his lower lip, pulled away from him and stretched.

"Filthy men," she said, combing her fingers through her hair as she made her way back to the bed. "My children eat on that table." There was a moment of silence as both Ragnar and his god admired the sway of her hips, then they were both on their feet, trailing after her like eager dogs .

***

Much later, when the night was at its darkest, Ragnar left the house. The air was fresh and clean and cold and he stretched in the doorway, surveying the scene. The fire had burned down low, and though there were still people gathered around it, drinking and telling somber stories, the majority had passed out where they lay or else retreated to a slightly more private location. He could not make out faces, of course, but he would have bet his life that neither Rollo nor Floki were among those sprawled out in slumber. Baring his teeth in a quick smile, Ragnar padded barefoot around to the back of the house.

The woodpile was built up in a corner of the yard, and it was there that Ragnar headed. There was a space behind the pile, so small that it seemed impossible that a grown man could squeeze into it. But yes, there he was, curled up like a little boy with his back against the wood and his legs tucked up against his chest. The priest's face looked haggard, as though nightmares dogged his sleep; as Ragnar watched, his mouth twitched down into a frown and a soft moan escaped him.

Without thinking, Ragnar reached down and cupped Athelstan's cheek, his thumb moving to stroke the bridge of the priest's nose. It was something he had done for Bjorn when he was a baby, and for Gyda as well , though she had been less fussy, more prone to sleep through the night. Athelstan quieted immediately, turning his face with a soft murmur of contentment and falling back into a deep slumber.

Ragnar stood a minute more, staring down at the priest, cursing himself for a fool. He had his wife and his god asleep in his bed, and he was out in the cold, staring down at this poor little creature . The priest was barely a man, he should not matter at all. Yet here he was, in the cold and the dark, watching over Athelstan as though he were as precious as gold.

A rustle of feathers. Ragnar turned his head to stare at the raven which had alighted on the woodpile. It was massive, almost as long as his arm, and it clacked its beak at him, quorking softly. One jet black eye peered down at the priest, and Ragnar understood. Athelstan would be safe enough here tonight. Pushing himself upright, feeling rightly as though the appearance of the bird had been a dismissal, he inclined his head respectfully and retreated to his own bed.


End file.
